


read the map like poetry

by shades



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Burner sex, M/M, Monroe and Nick get whumped by the clue stick, Recreational Drug Use, Roddy is totally not a sap really, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:55:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shades/pseuds/shades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He turned around in Barry’s arms, tracing the dark tattoos on his chest and flanks with careful fingers. Tribal lines screaming 'Remember where you came from', but now, now it was more than that, now they both looked at them and thought 'Remember where thinking like that could get you.' Six months of juvie wiped from your record because your dad’s a good lawyer and a mom you got to see on alternate Sundays down at the jail.</p>
<p>Where you came from wasn't always enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	read the map like poetry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ornategrip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ornategrip/gifts).



> For ornategrip, who wanted Barry/Roddy in college and Monroe/Nick falling in together. More of the first, less of the second, with an OMC who should have been a throwaway but stubbornly dug his heels in and hung on.
> 
> Originally posted at the Grimm Exchange [DW account](http://grimm-exchange.dreamwidth.org/6638.html).

“Really,” Roddy said, hands shoved deep into his pockets, violin case tipped against the duffel bag at his feet. From the driver’s seat, Barry shoved down his aviators and gave him a smug smile. 

“What?”

“A Hummer? Really?” The behemoth was inflicting the latest Kanye album on the East Village, the ‘Bambi Basher’ bumper sticker attracting a few muffled gasps from bad-sweater clad hipsters. 

“Birthday Present, Ratta-chewy,” Barry said, leaning over to shove the passenger door open. 

“You’re not seriously going to ride this one man global warming machine into _Portland_ , are you?” 

Barry rolled his eyes. “It’s this or a cross-country Greyhound. And,” and here he dropped his voice, grinning a little when he tipped his sunglasses down, “I bet anyone that wants to give you head on _that_ ride isn’t going to be as good at it as me.”

“Jesus,” Roddy said, and tossed his bag in back. “You’re smug.”

Barry shrugged, said, “I missed you,” and leaned over, pressing stubble against stubble and gave him a lingering sniff. 

“Yeah, well, we’re not listening to this shit for the next week, dammit,” Roddy said, flicking the radio off as soon as he slid into the seat.

“Have it your way, Juilliard. I got five days of Waltzes to look forward to?”

“Smug,” Robby said, and hooked his iPod up to the car stereo and - douchebag car or not, New York City’s latest house music - _RetchedKat’s_ latest house music - deserved these speakers, leather seats. Barry’s hand crept onto Roddy’s thigh as they pulled away from the curb. 

“Club rat,” Barry said, shouting to be heard over the music. Roddy just tipped his head back and grinned.

Five days to Portland, summer break, home. 

*

So, you maybe have a melt down, poor kid, Wessen, sick of a trailer, metal cages and the same view out on the same river your whole life - maybe you go a little Pied Piper on a few jerks that didn’t deserve any less and you wind up having some new breed of Grimm looking down at you like you’d kicked his dog - oh and speaking of _dog_ , his leashed Blutbad wasn’t helping matters, even with his part-time motivational speaker shit - suddenly you’re crossing paths with Jagerbars and feral Blutbaden and any other half-broken adolescents Nick Burkhardt found. Nick talked about the evils of segregation and hierarchical social systems and it boiled down to circle-time with the Pacific Northwest’s teenaged creatures, where everyone pretended they were friends and didn’t have a biological imperative to avoid the everliving hell out of one another.

Except, frustratingly, it had worked. Worked well enough that when Roddy found himself looking slack-jawed at a full-scholarship to Juilliard, Barry had quietly slipped his own acceptance to Yale across the kitchen table with hopeful eyes. 

“I don’t want to be those freaks that go to a college because their - whatever is going somewhere close by,” Roddy had said, trying not to look excited. 

“You’re a rat,” Barry said, “I’m a bear. We’re kind of freaks anyway.” He looked tired - he’d gone to see his mom up at the correctional facility the evening before, Roddy could tell just by looking at him, that pinch in his eyes, the tired frown. 

“We’re getting out of Portland,” Roddy said softly, paper crumpling in his hands. 

“Yup.” Barry’s hands were big and wrapped securely around his hips, and they weren’t one of those gross couples who made out in public, who fawned, remembered anniversaries, but Barry was steady, often quiet, and he bit Roddy’s bottom lip when they kissed: Roddy thought that maybe, New York, Yale, the East Coast, well, that was a start, wasn’t it?

*

“What the hell is the purpose of Cleveland,” Roddy grumbled, stretching a kink out of his neck as they rolled up to a roadside hotel. The car took up a space and a half in the crumbling parking lot: yeah, they were those guys. He’d rather be called a faggot than a douchebag. Say what you want about Manhattan in this day and age, there was still grumbles and hard eyes. 

“Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, man,” Barry said promptly, scooping up a few empty paper coffee cups, a tin of pringles, all the signs of cross country driving in the form of trash on the floor of the car. “We can hit it up tomorrow if you’re not anxious to get home to go be a councilor for the Grimm’s Wessen Summer Camp.”

Roddy shuddered, “We’ll see. Here, I’ll --” He dug in his pants for his wallet, but Barry was already sliding out of the car, headed for the dingy motel office. 

“I got it this time, man, you just be a good little bell boy and get the bags ready to go to the room, okay?”

Scholarship case in NYC or not, Roddy was still the poor kid one year down the line. A regular Cinderella, minus the pumpkin carriage and glass slippers. Nick didn’t have the calves for fairy godmothering, anyway. 

And, speak of the devil, his phone buzzed. Roddy dug it out and pinned it against his shoulder while he struggled with their bags.

“Yeah?”

“Hey, how’s it going? You guys aren’t still driving, are you? It’s getting late out there.”

“Hi, Nick.” Roddy leaned against the car and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re not gonna put out an APB on us if I say yes, are you?”

“Nah.” It sounded like Nick was talking around a sandwich and grinning. Roddy resisted the treacherous pull of his mouth. “You watch too much TV. Push me and I might get the crime lab out there, run some DNA, you know. Do some science.”

“God,” Roddy muttered, and leaned against the bumper. 

The calls had started when Roddy was barely past college orientation, just a few things here and there. First Nick had passed it off like business calls, asking what all those hip Wessen kids were doing these days, where could he potentially set up early intervention programs, if Roddy knew about an illicit testicular powder ring and he wasn’t doing anything like that in New York, was he?

Eventually, he’d transitioned in to asking, were classes okay? Creature communities treating him okay out there? Were he and Barry, you know, uh, still close?

He called more often than his dad did, who wasn’t exactly at his best on the phone but still asked Roddy to send tapes of his performances home through the mail. The calls had dropped off suddenly around the winter holidays and returned with renewed force by late January: Barry, who heard mostly from Monroe, said that Nick had realized his relationship with Juliette was over about two months after she did. 

Monroe called Barry a few days after Christmas to ask the best way to get vomit out of couch cushions, which probably summed up Nick’s holiday. 

“Seriously though, you guys pulled over?” Nick said, jostling Roddy back to the present.

“Yeah, some shit hole in Cleveland, Barry’s getting the room. What’s up with you? New Wessen case?”

“Nah, things have calmed down since that thing with the Jackals last month. Oh! Hey, before I forget, Monroe’s gonna have a barbecue next weekend if you guys want to come.”

“Let me guess, tofu and root beer, right?” Roddy muttered, brightening a little when Barry emerged from the office, jangling a key triumphantly in one hand. 

“Maybe, if you’re lucky. But, seriously, don’t worry, Monroe isn’t allowed near the grill. And if you’re clever maybe I won’t see you guys drinking those smoozy microbrews he buys.”

“You love his microbrews,” Roddy said, tipping his forehead against Barry’s shoulder when he slipped his arms around his waist. “So tell me, are you guys gonna be wearing your matching fanny packs or what?”

“What?” Nick said, sounding mystified and Roddy wondered if Nick was going to be two months into his thing with Monroe before he realized they were dating. Maybe that would be best for everyone involved. 

“Nothing - look, hey, gotta go, we’ve got an early start tomorrow, yeah?”

“Sure, hey, keep in touch. Don’t speed and be careful where you stay and -”

“We won’t talk to strangers, Mom,” he said, and Barry was tipping his head down to kiss him, right in the middle of the jaundiced sodium light parking lot, one hand braced in the small of his back. “Seriously, I gotta go...”

“I-”

“Bye, Detective,” Barry rumbled, plucking the phone from Roddy’s hand and shutting it in one motion. 

“He and Monroe are having an engagement party next weekend. They want us to come.”

“Sounds awesome,” Barry deadpanned, dropping his hand down to his ass, one hand sliding into his back pocket. “Lets get you inside, hm?”

“Yeah,” Roddy said, feeling stupidly small against Barry’s chest - warm, surrounded, safe. 

“Lets go.”

*

He thinks that this isn’t probably how his life is supposed to go. He’s standing in the shower late the next morning, leaning back into Barry’s chest while the soap slid down their limbs. They’ve already fooled around enough this morning that it’s unlikely to go that way again, which takes some doing, but his skin is still hypersensitive and his breath is hitching because - dammit, Barry’s a big guy. He had to learn to be gentle with people. It was easy to underestimate how deft those hands could be until they were carding gently back through his hair, washing the last of the shampoo away. 

Roddy’s pretty sure his life was supposed to better suit his station, have him scurrying around in dark corners, jumping at loud noises. He turned around in Barry’s arms, tracing the dark tattoos on his chest and flanks with careful fingers. Tribal lines screaming _Remember where you came from_ but now, now it was more than that, now they both looked at them and thought _remember where thinking like that could get you_. Six months of juvie wiped from your record because you’re dad’s a good lawyer and a mom you got to see on alternate Sundays down at the jail.

Where you came from wasn’t always enough. 

Roddy shook his head sharply and said, “I want to stop in Chicago tonight.”

“Okay.”

“There’s a rave. Someone back in New York comped me some tickets.”

“Okay.”

“It’ll be fun.”

“I know,” Barry rumbled, dropping a kiss down onto his shoulder, reaching past him to kill the water. “Would be better if you were spinning, but least I get to dance with you without that bucket on your head.”

“You like the bucket,” Roddy said, dashing out of the shower and into the bedroom, flushing when Barry watched him, unapologetic, flushing a little at the curve of his ears. Roddy flipped back on the bed and tossed a dry towel at his face. 

“I like your face more. Put some pants on, we’ll never get out of here by check out.”

*

There was that one time, Roddy remembers during the long hours of Indiana, Barry sacked out in the passenger seat and snoring peacefully. There was that one time when Nick’s incredible luck finally ran out and he was dead, technically, on the table for about ten minutes. He was dead. He knew it because Monroe had kept saying it quietly, over and over, while crash carts poured into the curtained-off ER room.

_He’s dead, what did we...he’s dead, they said that he’s..._.

His hands were shaking, Roddy remembers. He had said, “Oh, god, I have to tell Juliette he’s dead.”

But death didn’t stick to Nick Burdkhart any better than common sense, and a shot of adrenaline and some chest compressions later, he’d been weakly saying, “Did we get him? The Slaugh? Is it --”

Barry had driven him home from the hospital. It had been so fucking stupid. Roddy had offered to play his violin to distract the Seelie court while Nick and Monroe slipped in and freed up those poor kids. They’d been unprepared - you can’t trust the Gentry. They live too long and have a quiet fascination with the way blood clots and flows. Nick had been dead for five minutes and Roddy watched someone realize that maybe he was in love. 

Barry had followed him inside, that night. Had followed him through the shit trailer and into his shit room and untucked his shirt and, for the first time, slid their lips together and said things that meant, “Okay, okay, I’m here.”

“Almost there?” Barry rumbled, shoving sleep from his eyes. Roddy grinned at the road. 

“Nearly. Hey, you know, Nick didn’t say anything about roadhead.”

“Didn’t he?” Barry said, grinning, but his hand slid up Roddy’s legs and Roddy let his knees sag apart. “Seems kind of short sighted for him.”

“It helps that he absolutely doesn’t want any details, oh, god, yes,” Roddy said, because Barry had his hands in his pants, and this, this alone, made Indiana worth it. 

* 

They didn’t make it to Chicago until the sky was an orange-purple bruise of early evening. Rush hour kept them sitting on 90/94 too long, but as they crept closer to the skyline, Barry took a swig from a hip flask and passed it over. 

“Nice city,” he said reflectively. 

“Yeah,” Roddy said. The directions he’d been given back in New York steered them around the glitz of downtown in a slow arch, depositing them in a neighborhood of three-story walk ups and vegan-friendly restaurants. 

“These hipsters are gonna do something weird to my car,” Barry grumbled.

“Probably,” Roddy said happily, springing out of the car after the half-an-hour torture session that was trying to parallel park on a sleepy side street. “C’mon, feel it yet?”

The thrum of bass was just barely palpable in the asphalt. Roddy grinned and stretched his hand over his head. “C’mon.”

They followed a street to its dead end and slipped up a gravel path that was easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. This put them in the back parking lot of a forgotten industrial building that was slowly crumbling into urban decay.

Here, the signs were a little clearer. Giggling groups of people in fairy wings, wizard hats, naked and covered in body paint, smoking cigarettes and buying drugs. On the other side of the rusted shut chain link fence, beat cops were making slow circles of the block, just watching. Probably they wouldn’t do anything unless they had to. How do you arrest a few hundred burners that really wanted hugs? Too much goddamn paperwork. Roddy did a happy twist of his hips, leaning back into Barry.

“You are a bad fucking influence,” Barry said and dropped a baggy into Roddy’s hands; powdery little pills stamped with a single eye. 

“Nice,” Roddy crowed, shaking two out and pressing one against the pout of Barry’s bottom lip until the other boy opened his mouth, the drag of his tongue brief across his knuckles. “Where did you get it?”

Barry shrugged, “New Haven, before I picked you up. Thought it might make a romantic little present.”

Roddy snorted, tucking a pill between his gums and cheek. “You don’t need X to fuck me.”

“Nope, but it does make it more fun.”

They showed the slips of paper that Roddy produced at a card table outside a lopsided back door. Here, the bass was unmistakable, taking familiar hold below Roddy’s chest bone and tugging him closer to the noise. By now true night had fallen; it couldn’t have been much past midnight, but the party promised to last well past dawn. Inside, the warehouse smelled gently of wet concrete and had been set up like Alice’s Wonderland - in one roped off corner, acrobats and novices were practicing at a rope swing. Beside it, a great turtle-back PVC shell, 20 feet or more across and ten feet tall, was adorned with scarves and veils. Within, the interior was strewn with thick oriental carpets and pillows. A pair of dred-locked forty-somethings were demonstrating their balancing routine while people watched from cushions. In one far corner of the warehouse, fire spinners were grinning, hopped up, lighting staffs and breaths on fire with ease that came of practice, or insanity. In another, a closed-off laser room was attracting stares. Here was a inflatable jump castle. There a metalwork sculpture garden whose displays occasionally belched flames. And throughout, all-encompassing, was the heavy life pulse of the house music, shaking down dust and pigeon shit from the rafters, dragging all the burners onto the dance floor like the undertow to sea. 

“ _Fuck_ yes,” said Roddy, sometime later. The ecstasy made it hard to say how much time had passed. They were thick in the press of people in front of the stage. The DJ, a girl with heavy breasts wearing liquid latex and a pair of studio headphones and not much else, was spinning well enough that Roddy was content to lose himself in Barry’s heartbeat, his hands on his sides, the warm press of him against him, around him, holding him safe. 

People in wings, people in sequins, people dancing arms-over-heads in nothing at all. He turned to meet the press of Barry’s erection with his own, and in that fever-stoked movement saw the familiar blur of a Wessen changing over Barry’s shoulder. The man was short with whip-like features, long dark eyelashes and a spill of curled black hair. A scavenger, Waschbär, clever little beasts, omnivores, not to be trusted. Not to be trusted...just like Bears kill and gut and maim and rats shrink in small corners. He was smiling at Roddy. They had been confident that there would be few Wessen in this part of the world: the midwest lacked the right kind of landscape, no mountains or valleys or desert places and the Tribal, Native creatures rarely could abide the city. But they had been sloppy, hadn’t bothered to hide the slight shifts and betrayals the drugs allowed. 

“Spotted,” Roddy gasped, because Barry’s hand had been busy undoing his belt, unmindful of the people around them. 

“Who?” A growl, all teeth and sharp claws on his sides. 

“Waschbär,” Roddy mumbled, because the Raccoon was still grinning at him, biting the full swell of his bottom lip. His skin was a dark, healthy color, Roddy thought it would be warm to the touch. 

“Raccoon?” Barry said, turning them suddenly to see over Roddy’s shoulder. Roddy almost tripped, swaying slightly. The fog and lasers and throbbing music was making gravity difficult to understand. 

And, then, the boy was there. Their age, or maybe slightly older. He had a row of rings up one ear and henna and a few hickies along his jaw. 

“Indeed,” he said, an odd accent to his words. “And yet, I have had all my shots and it’s been years since I’ve pawed through anyone’s garbage, on my honor.”

“Thief,” Barry insisted, placing a proprietary hand on Roddy’s side. Roddy made a soft, hopeful noise; his pants were still undone, sagging low around his hips. 

“Mauler,” said the raccoon grinning. He darted a look at Roddy. “Squeaker. And yet, here, in Chicago, rutting like dogs. Not that I’m complaining, it’s a lovely sight to see...”

“Barry...” Roddy said, arching up into him, his eyes on the Raccoon. 

“I imagine you’re just passing through town,” the Raccoon said lightly, darting closer to the pair of them, one hand on the muscle of Barry’s forearm, eyes wary. Looking for permission. He licked his lips, ducked his head. “I imagine that...if you were, ah, accustomed to sharing...”

“It’s fine,” Roddy said, because if he was high, then so was Barry, and so was the Waschbär, with his over-large, blown out, yellow tinted eyes. 

“Sure?” Barry said, because they’d talked about it, on and off - they were young, high, living in a world a thousand miles away from home-town horrors. If it hadn’t been some burner-Wessen it would have been somebody else, a shared secret just made it that much easier to crowd to the back of the warehouse against the psychedelic walls for something that passed as privacy. 

“He’s mine,” Barry growled, holding Roddy back against his chest, chewing on his neck as the Raccoon slid between Roddy’s legs, rubbing sinuously to the overflowing music. 

“Yes, obviously, I do have two eyes to see you with,” the Raccoon laughed. “I’ll be careful with your toys, Mauler.”

“Thief,” said Barry, shoving up Barry’s tee-shirt for him, exposing his sweat slicked belly to deft, unfamiliar fingers. 

“Doesn’t look like there’s much virtue here to steal, mm?” His nails were longish and sharp enough that it was painful/good when he scraped them across Roddy’s nipples. “Hello, little rat,” he breathed, leaning in to bite Roddy’s collar bone. 

“Hey,” Roddy said, dazed, because at some point Barry had pushed down his boxers and wrapped his hand around his dick, jerking slowly as the Racoon boxed them in against the wall. 

“Your mauler, will he kill me if I make you come?”

Roddy managed a slight laugh, hearing Barry’s annoyed growl against the shell of his ear. 

“He’ll probably kill you if you _don’t_.”

That made the raccoon laugh. Say what you will about their quick hands and sticky fingers - no, wait, Roddy thought. He couldn’t. He was already on a thin wire and thinking too much about - about the hands, the quick darting of a tongue against his neck, about Barry’s fingers where they stroked him, wrapped around him, slick with sweat and what they were doing to him, that would be too much, story over before it even began. 

“Barry,” he mumbled going up on his tiptoes to try and thrust into his hands, hot all over, feeling naked with all his clothes still on. His tee-shirt was rucked up past his nipples and his jeans were open and sagging down around his thighs. The Raccoon was on him like a second skin, gasping filthy things against his mouth, one hand pinching and scratching at his nipples, the other cupping his balls, fingers tangling with Barry’s, dancing away. It was _sweltering_ in here, the humidity of open mouth kisses, a hundred dancing bodies pressed in tight. 

“God,” he mumbled, head tipped back onto the meat of Barry’s shoulder. All the heat, the half kisses, more searching sniffs and proprietary bites along his shoulders, neck, jaw. Bears were predators, rats were prey, but Raccoons were omnivores, and clever to boot. The boy had smudged eyeliner and a sharp, cutting grin, and he shoved Roddy just hard enough to make him groan and relented just enough that Barry didn’t totally bear-out in a moment of rage. It was a delicate dance, and if Roddy was in place to appreciate it he would have admired how deftly the Raccoon toed the line, how cocky he had to be to even suggest such a thing with Barry hulking and protective and quick to lose his temper. 

“You’re gonna lose it, rat,” he murmured, sounding proud of himself. The low noise Barry made carried with it a threat of warning. “That’s it,” he was crooning, “That’s it - let it go, hey? God, you’re fucking gorgeous, look at you, the two of you together, Jesus christ...”

So orgasms on ecstasy were fucking confusing things, Roddy later reflected. The build up was shorter, like falling from a cliff, but it felt like coming went on forever, that even when you were on the other side you were weak-kneed with giddy pleasure, body pleasantly short circuiting around you.

“Fu-uck,” Roddy mumbled, boneless against Barry, conscious enough to realize that his stomach was sticky and the Raccoon was pressing gentle, rough-tongued kisses on his chest and Barry’s hand was tangled in the boy’s hair, almost fond. 

Wasn’t made for lasting. Somewhere in there, the Raccoon had come, all bruised lips and trembling fingers. Even so, the afterglow was pleasant. Afterglow, if you could call it that, with music still shaking pigeon feathers down from the rafters, the dance floor a chaotic slurry of limbs and glitter, spun fire, bared breasts. Afterglow, almost. Barry was still hard, but he’d always been more patient, even when they were hopped up. And...strangely, the look he was giving the Raccoon was...no, not affectionate. But curious. It lacked the suspicion it had before, one of his big hands carding through his sweaty hair. 

“Thief,” Barry rumbled. 

“Mauler,” the Raccoon said, and he sounded exhausted, off kilter. A sudden movement, and Barry surprised him by dragging the Raccoon close and kissing him over his shoulder, all teeth, a nip, a snarl. 

“Hah,” Roddy murmured, and accepted the slow kiss when the Raccoon’s mouth slid to his. He let his fingers slide beside Barry’s in the boy’s wildly curling hair. “Hey,” he said, licking his lips, trying to resist the urge to kiss him again and again. He had to talk loudly, even this close, to be heard above the noise. “If you’re ever in Portland...”

*

In the end, they took the Raccoon with them. It seemed like polite thing to do and when he slunk out of the factory behind them, dawn coming up over the horizon lazily, Barry didn’t stop him. Barry was the patient one, obviously, but only up to a point. In the back of the Hummer, parked on an innocent little side street at 10 in the morning, he strung up sheets along the back windows, folded down the seats, and fucked Roddy with such slow, concentrated finesse that when Roddy found himself incoherent and grabbing at his shoulders, the Raccoon lying with a slow smile beside them, jacking himself off while he watched, it wasn’t because of the drugs. It was stupid, overly romantic, and fucking trite, but Barry knew Roddy’s body and kinks better than he did at this point. When the Raccoon ducked his head forward, taking Roddy in his mouth, sloppy and tight, and _jesus_ , Barry had just hit his prostate _again_...it was all over. 

The Raccoon daintily wiped a spot of come from the side of his mouth and gave the two of them a bright smile. “I could sleep for three years, personally,” he announced, and promptly curled up, one elbow under his head, and dropped off to sleep.

“Guess we can keep him for a little while,” Barry remarked, lifting his head from where he was leaving a string of hickies across Roddy’s sweat slicked chest. 

“You’ve got a weakness for lost causes,” Roddy said, but a moment and a handful of tissues later he curled into Barry’s chest, smelled the sweat of him, come, the Raccoon, and closed his eyes and slept until night came again.

*

“Yo,” Barry said, picking up his phone a day or two later, effectively derailing the Raccoon’s story about New Orleans, a Carnival night a few years back and the three, no four, Grimms that had been pursing him. 

“Hey, Monroe,” he said a few moments later, grinning into the receiver. The Raccoon, who was sitting shotgun while Barry drove, arched an eyebrow back at Roddy. 

“Blutbad,” Roddy said casually, just to see the white jump out around the Raccoon’s yellow eyes. “Friend of ours from back home.”

“Some friends you’ve found yourself, Squeaker,” the Raccoon muttered, jerking his head at Barry. 

“If it makes you feel any better, the other would-be predator in my life is a Grimm.”

“Come off it,” the Raccoon said, rolling his eyes. 

“I swear on the honor I’ve got left,” Barry said, digging his violin case out from the back seat and lifting it out reverently, picking at the strings to get them in tune.

“You’ve _seen_ a Grimm, then?” the Raccoon said, apparently abandoning all pretense that his Grimm swashbuckling stories were true. 

“Seen, been arrested by, and forced into his creature-rehab program,” Roddy confirmed, listening with half an ear as Barry teased Monroe about Nick. “Barry too. How do you think we met?”

“...strange sort they’re making, out in Portland,” the Raccoon said, and Roddy only nodded. 

“You really have no idea. Nick, the Grimm, he’s kind of a freak, but a nice guy. I’m not saying you should cozy up to the next Grimm you run across, but he’s no more an asshole than any other adult I’ve met.”

In the driver’s seat, Barry was laughing at something Monroe had said. “Us? Get into trouble? Nah. Well, there was that thing a night or two ago...no, Roddy and I got high at a rave and fucked in the back of the club. Well, not just the two of us, we picked up this guy and we’ve been fucking around the three of us for a day or so, lots of anonymous sex. Maybe tonight we’ll look for a glory hole - hello? Monroe? Hello?”

He grinned triumphantly and threw his phone down in the bin between the seats. 

“How’s Monore?” Roddy asked brightly. 

“He wanted to know how my _grades_ were,” Barry muttered, sounding disgusted. 

“That all?”

“He caught himself pissing around Nick’s apartment building,” Barry said. Juliette had kept the house in the breakup. 

“Matter of fucking time,” Roddy muttered. 

“I’m sorry, Nick the Grimm and Monroe the Blutbad?” the Raccoon said, his eyebrows creeping higher. “An...item?”

A sign for Salt Lake City whipped past them, twenty miles to the city limits. 

“Weider-blutbad,” Barry corrected, and caught Roddy’s eyes in the review mirror, “Weirder shit has happened.” At the Raccoon’s look, he barked a laugh and shrugged. “Well. Maybe not.” 

Roddy leaned forward and bit Barry’s shoulder, giving the Raccoon a lingering kind of look. 

“C’mon. Lets go freak out some Mormons.”

*

In Salt Lake City, Barry pulled up in front of a ridiculously opulent hotel and gave the two of them a proud little grin. 

“I hope you’re not expecting help with this bill,” the Raccoon said dubiously, peering out at the filigreed main entrance. Barry shook his head, tossing the keys to the valet. 

“Got the money, may as well,” he said simply, shouldering his bag rather than letting the bellboy take it. 

“His dad is loaded,” Roddy said, almost apologetically, watching Barry saunter into the lobby ahead of them. “And...under all the macho shit, he’s still a Jagerbar.”

“Gifts,” the Raccoon said, understanding. He sounded surprised. “Well, I shall count myself lucky then, shall I?”

“Get over yourself,” Roddy said, a smile tugging at his mouth. “He’s just gonna be sad to see you go.”

“Just him, eh?” The Raccoon, reaching out to tweak Roddy’s ass in passing. 

It turned out the Raccoon fancied himself some kind of Gypsy nomad, criss-crossing the States on borrowed rides, jumped trains, the soles of his shoes. “Wandering feets,” he’d said, with a sharp grin and a shrug. As far as Roddy could tell, he’d spent the spring slumming around the midwest. When he’d heard they were going west, he’d happily invited himself along. “Maybe I’ll keep with you a few days, hm? Been a while since I seen the mountains.” As for his name, he wasn’t telling. “What’s it matter, eh? Could be I’m gone tomorrow, better you remember this,” he’d said, groping Roddy, “Than some string of sounds to call me by.”

“He’s probably a serial killer,” Barry had said, but he was grinning while he watched them, one hand fisted around his dick. 

“Serial fucker, maybe,” he’d said, and that had been the end of that. 

“Romanced by a bear,” he said now, whistling through his teeth. “Guess this means I gotta put out?”

Roddy grinned. “Nothing’s stopped you yet.”

*

It was a kind gesture, more so than the Raccoon understood. Barry was always short on words, came across gruff and slow, but he was so plainly, honestly eager to please. Roddy had been watching his face carefully when the Raccoon spun a story about sleeping under an overpass the past few weeks in Chicago and how, laughing, a torrential down pour had fried his phone and soaked him and all his spare clothes straight through; he’d been damp for days, he’d said. 

The room is stupidly rich, high thread-count sheets, fully stocked mini-fridge, a spill of light from a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the mountains. Roddy had hated it, once, the ease with which Barry tossed money around, how he couldn’t seem to understand that this was almost insulting - Barry never had to save money for a new bookbag in September and he’d never had hamburger helper for dinner. He didn’t see anything wrong with dropping so much money in one go - what had he said? ‘Got the money, may as well spend it.’ He didn’t do the mental arithmetic on how much one night here could buy in terms of groceries.

But, the Raccoon had evidently learned not to look a gift horse in the mouth, which came as something of a relief. At first, Roddy had rarely handled these extravagances with anything approaching that kind of grace. 

“Kinda makes me feel like a Lady-of-Negotiable-Affection,” the Raccoon said, grinning, eating a bag of M&Ms off his stomach, laid out barefoot on the bed. Barry was ordering room service in the other room - the suite had more than one room, Jesus Christ. It was probably bigger than dad’s trailer back home. 

“Then I guess that makes me a trophy wife,” Roddy muttered, sliding over the Raccoon’s hips to a cascade of M&Ms. He gently pinned his arms above his head, grazing his mouth over the fine veins and bones on the inside of his wrist. 

“Hello, sailor, lookin’ for a date?” The Raccoon was grinning, but it was impossible to miss the way his voice caught. 

“I think...” Roddy said thoughtfully, feeling more than hearing Barry slide back into the room, that warm wall of comfort, wrapped around him like a charm. “I think I’d like to fuck you.”

Barry made a soft noise of appreciation. There was the sound of a buckle undoing and heavy denim hitting the floor. 

“If you’re amenable,” he added, lips just brushing the stubble on the underside of his jaw. 

“Oh, I’ll show you amenable, Squeaker,” he gasped out, pushing up when Roddy pushed his hips down hard. “I’ll show you downright _easy_.”

Roddy grinned and leaned forward. “You said it, not me.”

*

It wasn’t that he was some all-bottom, pillow-biter, really. Barry fucked him more often than not and he liked it that way, he liked the lick of pain that came with it, liked how still Barry went when he was first inside him, eyes wide and reverent. He liked it, loved it really, it made him feel warm and safe and taken care of, even when he was riding him, palms braced against the headboard over Barry’s head. And he fucked Barry enough times, too, and they both got off on it, but...but...so what if he _was_ a pillow biter, anyway? It wasn’t anybody’s business but theirs. 

But the Raccoon was slim and stringy where Barry was broad and inflexible, and there was something about that smile on his face that made Roddy want take him and make him groan.

Which, as it turned out, wasn’t so hard to do.

“Good Christ,” he was saying now, his back an arching thing as he ground his hips down against two lube slicked fingers tucked deep inside him, flexing surely against that _spot_ , the one that had him half incoherent already. Barry’s fist was wrapped around the Raccoon’s dick, jerking him in vague conterpoint to Roddy’s hands, and Roddy leaned forward, grinning against the the warm slant of his mouth. 

“You want a damn engraved invitation?” the Raccoon gasped, his body rolling up into theirs. 

“You could ask nicely,” Roddy murmured, turning his head to bite the inside of his knee.

“Say mercy,” Barry rumbled, watching him with a fierce kind of intensity, fist sliding up and down his dick. 

“Say _please_ ,” Roddy said, laughing. 

“Please, you god damned sadists, _please_.”

And, there you had it. A hand-engraved invitation didn’t have anything on the bare sound of his voice. 

“What do you think?” Roddy asked Barry, a mischievous slant to his mouth. “Should I?”

“I’d say fuck him before he finishes what you started on his own,” Barry said, and tossed him a rubber. 

“I always liked you, Mauler,” the Raccoon said, breathlessly. “Never let it be said I didn’t.”

“I got an A for sharing in kindergarten,” Barry said, leaning down to bite the column of the Raccon’s neck, spreading one, soothing hand low on his stomach as Roddy slid between his legs, angling his knees over his shoulders. 

“Here’s your chance to say no,” Roddy said. 

“And here’s me passing,” the Raccoon managed, squirming around impatiently. He glanced up at Roddy, making brief, yellow-tinted eye contact, and gave him a short, solid nod. _Not just fucking around, promise_ , which was just enough for Roddy to duck down and kiss him before pushing slowly in. 

“Mmm-aah,” the Raccoon said, the noise half lost in Barry’s mouth, one hand white knuckled on the sheets, the other grasping blinding for one of Barry’s hands. 

Yeah, thought Roddy, yeah, yes, this. This was insane, they were _insane_ for doing this, pressed against one another, a messy, awkward tangle on sheets way out of their pay grade. Or, it should have been awkward. It should have been insane. But they were young, it was summer, they were free! -- meandering their way across an entire country to make their way home. The Raccoon was tight and easy, muttering ‘yes, yes, _fuck_ , yes,’ letting out soft, keening noise when Barry tucked two fingers in his mouth and bent to take him in his mouth. 

It wasn’t made for lasting, summer time, sex, high school sweethearts, this. It wasn’t, but that was easy to forget in the sweet slide of skin, the panted breaths, Barry’s laughter when they turned their heads at exactly the wrong time and the Raccoon knocked his teeth against his chin. 

“It’s - ah, love, I’m not gonna be able to, I-” Which made Roddy laugh and slam into him hard, harder, watching his dick slide into him, watching Barry’s hand ghost up and down the Raccoon’s shaft. 

“C’mon,” Barry said, to both of them, gravel in his voice: he made it a demand. “Do it, you can, you're there, you’re so fucking good--”

Done, all over, I yield, I yield. Roddy was a shaking mess, hips jerking tight and uncontrolled as the Raccoon spilled on his chest, over Barry’s fingers, and Roddy was there, right along with him, body twitching, spilling, wound up and released, _yes, yes, this. Yes_.

A noise rattled out of him, forehead tipped forward onto the Raccoon’s shoulder, breathing in short, aborted pants.

“Best fucking ride of my life,” said the Raccoon and, tired, sticky, sweaty though they were, they laughed, young men on good sheets with late afternoon sunlight spilling through the western window, looking out, far below, on the road that went home, home, home. 

*

“Not the most inconspicuous way I’ve ever done this, but there’s a first time for everything,” the Raccoon sighed, sliding his bookbag over his shoulders. The Hummer, bright yellow, glaring against the drab backdrop of the freight yard, was pulled up along a loose gravel shoulder on a service road. There was an ambling chain link fence between them and the yard, the trian cars indistinct in the late evening twilight. 

“You sure you’re not interested in heading to Portland?” Roddy said, sitting on hood of the car, trying not to sound disappointed. 

“To meet your Grimm and trained blutbad? No. Thank you. I’ll pass on that. Besides...ah, the desert is calling. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Las Vegas...” He grinned, cupping the ball of Roddy’s knee in his palm, leaning forward to press a kiss to his neck, eyes on Barry, who was leaning against the driver’s side door. 

“Looks dangerous,” Barry said, jerking his chin at the yard. 

“Worried for me, mauler?” He tipped up his head, looking smug, “I been jumping trains a long time.”

“You’re gonna end up tied to the train tracks, thief,” Barry muttered, but he ducked his head to hide a smile, and leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his temple. 

“Then you shall have to come to my rescue. Wouldn’t that be fun?” He spun away, still grinning. “It has, my loves, been a _pleasure_ ,” he told them, tipping an imaginary hat, bowing down half way. He tossed his pack over the fence and climbed up and over it, easy as you please. Roddy slid down off the car and into Barry’s arms, watching the Raccoon with a wry twist to his mouth. 

“Portland’s got a nice summer,” he offered suddenly, just to watch the Raccoon turn back to them with a sharp, pleased grin.

“Oh?” he said, walking backwards into the yard. “Well, then...may be a good idea to leave a light on for me, hm? Never know which way the winds will blow.”

They watched him slip away, clever and fast, undetectable. Finally, Barry ducked his head down and sniffed at Roddy’s hair, collecting him close. 

“See? I play well with others,” he murmured. It was almost a laugh. 

“Yes,” Roddy said, grinning until his mouth hurt. “Yes you do. You get a gold god-damned star. C’mon.” He tugged at Barry’s hand, going up onto his toes to press a kiss against the corner of his mouth, “I want to go home.”

*

The last leg of the trip was the longest, or maybe it just felt that way. They drove through the night, slipping past mountains, down through valleys, forests, the long flat lands. They kept the radio turned off, listening instead to the wind whip through the windows, talking quietly, idly, hands laced over the bins between the seats. 

Nick called once, twice, three times, sounding too bright, too tense, his voice was hoarse like he was hungover and got sharp and defensive when Roddy asked how Monroe was doing. When he told Barry this, the other boy arched his eyebrows and picked up his own phone and dialed Monroe. 

“Did you fuck the Grimm, or what?” he said as soon as Monroe picked up and had to call back three more times before Monroe would even pick up the phone, which, when he finally did, was only to snap out a shrill _’Mind your own god damned business, you perverts_ ,’ which was really more than answer enough. 

“I can’t believe we missed it,” Roddy said, yawning into his fist. 

“We’ll have to put up with their shit all summer,” Barry said, stretching the kinks out of his shoulder. “You’ll be sick of it in a week.”

Roddy snorted through his nose and squeezed Barry’s hand, feeling soppy and heartsore and really, quite very possibly, in love. 

“Least I’ve got you to keep me entertained.” A sign slid by them, Portland, 10 miles. The evergreens stuck out of the ground here like green spears; the road was one long green corridor, twisting through the forest like a stream. 

“Yeah,” Barry said, passing his thumb over Roddy’s knuckles. The world smelled like summer, cut grass, soap, humidity. Barry glanced over at him, doing the thing where he was almost, almost smiling.“You’ve got me.”


End file.
